Chapter 2: The Final Walk of the Queen

The New York rain was cold, but it was nothing compared to the ice settling in my veins. I stood on the sidewalk outside our penthouse, the Petrus wine still damp on my hands, watching the tail lights of Silas’s car disappear into the fog. He was heading to the airport to pick up his True Mate.

He didn't even wait for me to pack. He didn't even wait for me to stop shaking.

I had exactly two hours before his Beta, Marcus, would arrive to "escort" me out of the territory. In Lycan terms, that was a polite way of saying I was being deported. I took a deep breath, the scent of wet asphalt filling my lungs, and for the first time in three years, my wolf didn't whimper. She growled.

Placeholder, she hissed in the back of my mind. We’ll show him who fills the space.

I didn't go to a hotel. I went to the one place Silas would never think to look for me: The Lunar Gala. It was the biggest social event of the year for the Northern Packs, and tonight was the night Silas was supposed to announce our renewed commitment. Instead, I was going to give him a different kind of announcement.

I drove my small, beat-up vintage Cooper—the only thing I actually owned in my name—to the Vane Estate. By the time I arrived, the parking lot was a sea of black SUVs and Italian sports cars. The scent of Alphas, Betas, and high-society omegas was thick in the air, a heady mix of expensive cologne and predatory pheromones.

I walked to the trunk and pulled out the garment bag I’d hidden there a week ago. I hadn't planned on a divorce, but I’d always known the pack didn't want me. I had prepared a battle dress just in case.

In the back of the car, I stripped off the emerald silk Silas had chosen for me. I stepped into a gown of midnight blue—the color of a storm at sea. It was backless, clinging to my curves like a second skin, with a slit up the thigh that was definitely not "obedient wife" material. I wiped the smeared mascara from my eyes and replaced it with a sharp, lethal wing of eyeliner.

I looked in the rearview mirror. I didn't look like an omega anymore. I looked like a problem.

As I climbed the marble stairs of the estate, the heavy oak doors swung open. The music—a sweeping orchestral piece—stalled for a heartbeat as I entered.

"Is that... Elara?"

"I thought she was being cast out tonight. Look at that dress."

"She smells... different. Cold."

I ignored the whispers, keeping my chin parallel to the floor. My heart was hammering against my ribs, especially when I saw him.

Silas stood at the center of the ballroom, looking like the king he was. But beside him, draped in white lace and smelling of cloying jasmine, was Genevieve St. Cloud. She was beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way, her hand tucked firmly under Silas’s arm.

When Silas saw me, his glass nearly slipped from his hand. His gray eyes flared a dark, molten gold—his wolf, Fenris, was reacting to me. Good. Let him hurt.

"Elara," Silas barked, his voice echoing across the silent room. He stepped toward me, his Alpha aura radiating outward like a physical weight, trying to force me to bow. "I told you to be gone by midnight. What are you doing here?"

I didn't bow. I didn't even flinch. "I forgot a few things, Silas. My dignity, for one. And the pleasure of seeing your face when I tell you exactly what you can do with your 'generous' settlement."

Genevieve stepped forward, her red lips curving into a sneer. "Poor thing. The rejection has clearly broken her mind. Silas, darling, have the guards remove this... omega. She’s staining the air."

I looked Genevieve up and down, my gaze lingering on the diamond necklace she was wearing—a Vane family heirloom. "The air was already stained the moment you walked in, Genevieve. That jasmine scent is doing a lot of heavy lifting to hide the smell of a woman who’s been sleeping her way through the Southern Alliance for years."

The room gasped. Genevieve’s face turned a mottled purple. "How dare you!"

"Elara, enough!" Silas roared. He moved so fast it was a blur, his hand catching my upper arm. His grip was firm, his heat seeping into my skin, and for a second, my traitorous body wanted to lean into him. "You are embarrassing yourself. Leave now, and I’ll increase the trust fund. Make a scene, and you leave with nothing."

I leaned in close, until my lips were inches from his ear. I could smell the bourbon on his breath and the underlying scent of cedar that I used to love. "Keep your money, Silas. I don't want a cent of your guilt. But know this—the Oracle didn't find your mate. She found your downfall."

I pulled my arm back and did the one thing no one expected. I reached out and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and instead of drinking it, I threw it directly into Genevieve’s face.

As she shrieked, the room erupted into chaos. Silas’s eyes went full gold, his canine teeth lengthening.

"You’re dead to this pack!" he hissed, the Alpha Command vibrating in the air. "I, Silas Vane, Alpha of the North, hereby reject you, Elara Vance, as my wife and member of this pack. You are rogue. You are nothing!"

The rejection hit me like a physical blow to the chest. The pack link—the invisible thread that connected me to everyone in the room—snapped. It felt like a piece of my soul was being ripped out through my throat. I stumbled back, my lungs burning, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of falling.

I looked at the crowd—the people I’d cooked for, healed, and protected. They all turned their backs. Every single one of them.

"Fine," I whispered, my voice carrying through the silence. "I’m nothing to you. But in five years, you’ll be begging for a 'nothing' to save you."

I turned and walked out of the ballroom, my heels clicking a steady rhythm on the marble. I didn't look back until I reached the Devil’s Drop—the cliff overlooking the Atlantic.

I stood at the edge, the wind whipping my hair around my face. I touched my stomach. The tiny heartbeat was still there, steady and strong.

"It’s just us now," I whispered to the dark water below.

Suddenly, the bushes behind me rustled. Two large, mangy wolves stepped out, their eyes glowing a sickly red. Rogues. But they weren't random. They had the scent of the St. Cloud pack on them.

"Genevieve doesn't like loose ends," one of them growled, shifting halfway into a man with a scarred face. "Sorry, little omega. But you aren't supposed to survive the night."

They lunged. I had no training. I had no strength. But as the first wolf’s claws reached for my throat, a surge of heat exploded from my core. It wasn't my wolf. It was something deeper—something ancient.

A blinding flash of violet light erupted from my skin, throwing the rogues back into the trees. My vision blurred, the world spinning as my knees buckled. The last thing I felt was the cold air as I fell backward, off the cliff and into the churning black abyss of the sea.

I will survive, I promised the moon as the water rushed up to meet me. And when I come back, I’m bringing the storm.